


The Art of Asymmetry

by AstronautSquid



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Class Differences, Developing Relationship, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Life Drawing, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Wanton abuse of the semicolon, art nerdery, food imagery, lethal amounts of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 18:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstronautSquid/pseuds/AstronautSquid
Summary: Her sketches of people tended to veer into caricature with their lively emphasis of all things out of the ordinary - a large nose, a double chin, a foppish gesture -, and had thus quickly been ruled unfit for display among polite company.Thomas encouraged her to keep a rotating selection framed on a dresser in the chamber connecting their rooms.It was a week into their affair that Miranda first sketched James.[for thomas/miranda/james week 2017]





	The Art of Asymmetry

**Author's Note:**

> there's three important reasons for this fic:  
> a) i'm an artist  
> b) i'm a life-drawing model  
> c) the thomas/james/miranda dynamic is my jam and i'll never be over it
> 
> disclaimer: being a life-drawing model isn't particularly sexy or glamorous irl. you spend a lot of time counting in your head and thinking about dinner.

As a daughter of good breeding, Miranda had naturally been subjected to the customary lessons in etiquette, dancing, music, needlework and, of course, drawing. Her still lives graced many a relative's and admirer's wall, and drew enthusiastic praise.

Fruit and flower arrangements found a fresh vitality under her critical eye, coaxed into lilting asymmetry and bursting, obscene displays of ripeness.

Once, she had charmed an admirer with naught but a coyly presented sketch of a pair of plums. Thomas had inquired after the state of the man's own plum orchard, as he put it, amidst peals of delighted laughter.

"Is he feeling inadequate in the face of how thick and juicy you made them look? Maybe he is missing one of his own," he had wondered and borne with good grace the pinch Miranda had administered to his arm in response. (Then she had proceeded to tell him in detail about the man's plums. None had been missing, to be sure.)

The human form, however, was her favourite motif. There was a special indulgence that she lavished upon her subjects; exaggeration poured with abandon into every stroke. Her sketches of people tended to veer into caricature with their lively emphasis of all things out of the ordinary - a large nose, a double chin, a foppish gesture -, and had thus quickly been ruled unfit for display among polite company. Thomas encouraged her to keep a rotating selection framed on a dresser in the chamber connecting their rooms.

It was a week into their affair that Miranda first sketched James.

Thomas was spending the afternoon with an old friend from Eton and Miranda used the opportunity to ask James' opinion of her most recent purchases - a collection of delicate robes to be worn around the house. For expediency's sake, she forewent wearing anything underneath, since she was changing in and out of the different pieces anyway. James proved an appreciative, if hopelessly uncritical audience. She maintained a stream of light chatter, turning this way and that and draping the trailing hems and embroidered necklines every which way, while he tried desperately to offer any sort of constructive response.

When she slipped on a thing of diaphanous chiffon and his valiant offer was only that it was very purple indeed, Miranda took pity on James. She peeled the uniform off his glowing skin, draped the insubstantial robe over his shoulders and rode him on her favourite chaiselongue. He made delightfully soft noises as the chiffon brushed over his nipples, and the seedpearls in the embroidery covered his shoulders like a scattering of white seafoam freckles.

She was unbearably charmed by how slumberous he became after exerting himself during their trysts; she would generally find herself under lovingly languid and hot-skinned siege. It was even more charming how conscious he was of it, knowing his own weight and ensuring in periodic sleepy rumbles that she was still comfortable beneath him.

Usually Miranda enjoyed it well enough, but today she carefully extricated herself and assured him that all was fine as he drifted off. Soundlessly, she fetched her paper and cedar pencils.

James woke from his post-coital nap before long. Upon noticing what Miranda was doing he pulled bashfulness around him, as useless at covering his pleasure as the gauzy robe had been. She knew her own talents of reading what people tried to hide, and she could tell plain as day that beneath his self-consciousness there was a secret delight at being appreciated so openly. The rarest people, she knew, were truly safe from flattery.

He offered clumsy admiration of her draftsmanship.

\-----

Miranda only showed Thomas one of the sketches, chastely displaying James' head and shoulders, one muscular arm outstretched to pillow his cheek against it. The forceful curve of his lower arm flowed into his wrist, which was so powerfully broad when seen from the front, but looked surprisingly delicate from the side, leading to the taper of his raw-knuckled fingers and the blunt staccato stops of his nails. One side of his face was endearingly squashed against his own shoulder.

Thomas quite certainly guessed that there were more drawings, of course, but he did not ask.

She fetched the robe and covered his eyes with seedpearls as he brought himself off in her arms.

\----

One evening, James forgot his tricorn in her bedroom and the next time he visited, she sent him to the connecting chamber to fetch it. He re-emerged, face scarlet.

"Has Thomas seen the sketches?" he asked, twitching a restless hand at the dresser behind him, where a perfectly innocent profile of his face sat amidst lush bursts of lilac blossoms and vicious caricatures of Thomas' least favourite Members of Parliament.

"Only the ones that show little more than what he has already seen of you," Miranda promised. She noticed the way his thumbs kept running along the swooping brim of the hat. "Why, would you give me permission to share the others? My dear husband does admire the sight of such well-honed strength as yours, love."

Something hushed over James' face, a spectre of what she sought to banish before all: shame.

Miranda rose from her seat. "James, I would never want to embarrass you. I assure you, I would never without your approval -"

"You have it," he cut her off and fixed his eyes upon hers, proud and quietly stormy. "Show him. I'm sure the sight of a working man's coarseness will inspire him when he is caught up in his own hard labours, talking policy over tepid tea with bewigged old men."

And James put on his hat, all manners forgotten in his haste to leave, and kissed her roughly before sweeping out of the room.

Miranda sat down where she stood, stomach fluttering over the amalgam of upset and arousal that had been on his agitated tongue.

\----

Thomas remarked to her that both James' affection and acerbicity had found their way more openly into his mouth of late, and he wondered at it. Miranda did not tell him of the incident of a few days before.

She left a few of the more salacious drawings on the dresser, still opting to forego the most explicit motives.

One of the papers disappeared, a charcoal sketch of James sitting on her bed.

His back was facing the viewer, arse half-obscured by his uniform, discarded on the bed. The clean long lines of his left side soared from his buttock, compressed to delicious roundness by the majority of his weight, up to his shoulder, resting up against the bedpost. The opposite shoulder, following nature's tendency towards contraposto, was gently dipped downward. Below, his bottom-most ribs leant into the space above his pelvic crest, their bones usually kept further apart by his upright military posture. James' loose hair was gathered over one shoulder, but a few locks had escaped to curve in striking constrast to the rigid cut of his scapula, and he had tucked his left foot under his splayed-out right thigh. The lavish trajectory of his coat's hem with its intricate pattern of trim and fastenings was a thrilling contrast to the simplicity of James' skin; Miranda adored the way the silhouettes of the silver buttons carved negative space into his body.

The most exciting part of the pose, however, was the shadowed space beneath his right buttock, soft and relaxed. It was impossible to tell whether the obscurity in the small hollow beneath was just the flesh of his arse or a teasing glimpse of his balls.

It was a quick sketch and she had had to fill in the details of his uniform from memory, after James' foot had cramped beneath him and she had gathered him into her arms to bestow soothing mockery upon his injury.

One lazy Sunday afternoon Miranda left the door to the connecting chamber open, letting him see his own more enticing likeness among the caricatures and quaint scenes. James stood and contemplated the sight for a long moment, hand twitching in what might have been the urge to touch, and returned to her side in bed.

He had not mentioned Thomas in conjunction with her drawings again and seemed quite detemined not to let it affect their relationship, but there had been a particular fierceness to his caresses of late. Miranda decided that if James did not bring it up himself again, she was going to let the matter rest.

\----

A week later, Thomas left on a visit to his favourite cousin, not to return for three days.

Miranda took the opportunity to bestow particular attention upon James, determined to ease whatever hurt she had inadvertedly caused him by taking him on excursions and sparing no effort to ensure his pleasure.

They were indulgently enjoying a late lunch in bed when Miranda suggested that James pose for her.

"Isn't that what I have been doing for weeks now?" he asked and licked grease from his thumb. "You must have enough drawings of me to curate an entire exhibition at this point."

"No, darling James," Miranda corrected and lifted one of her breasts to fan the hot, sticky skin underneath. She noticed his eyes following the motion with confused appreciation, and had to stop herself from laughing. "I have drawn you whenever I could catch you in a moment of repose. What I am asking is that you put yourself on display, play-act a little for the sake of a lovely drawing."

James pondered this for a moment before aquiescing, under the stipulation that she fetch one of her scarves to wrap around his hips. Miranda's heart clenched with affection at how this man, this military prodigy whose face she had ridden so vigorously just half an hour ago, was now so shy to be presenting himself even in the privacy of her bedroom.

She bid him stand on the dais to one side of her room, where she sometimes set up her easel to paint. The windows let in soft, rain-slick light that poured over his form, washing the darkest part of the shadows, usually suspended on the brink between light and dark, into mellow anonymity.

Miranda sat on the bed, wearing her shift and dressing gown again, and sketched.

James possessed a beautiful body, of course, sculpted into firmness by years of military discipline and an unforgiving life at sea. She had to admit, however, that he did not have her own or Thomas' natural aptitude for arranging himself pleasingly. James assumed the most lovely positions when relaxed or otherwise engaged, but placed in this new situation there was no denying the self-consciousness of his movements, the way he could never quite settle his weight in a place that would pull the rest of his body into the most appealing shapes. His center of gravity kept hovering somewhere between his feet, preventing the satisfying tilts of a full shift.

It wasn't that his posture was _bad_. As a Navy man, his spine was perfectly straight, his shoulders squared, knowing himself scrutinized. He had just never gone through an artist's process of finding what was pleasing, what made for an interesting stance. His arms were loath to leave his side, while his hands were hesitant to find purchase upon his own skin. He tended to gravitate towards symmetry in his efforts to make a picture, which was a stylistic device best used with reserve.

Miranda tried directing James from where she was sitting but eventually she contented herself with letting him move however he felt was most comfortable, thinking that next time she would simply go back to sketching him in a less artificial manner.

Half an hour passed before they were startled out of their respective thoughts.

"You will not believe who decised to visit cousin Richard today!" Miranda's eyes darted to James, who had flinched at the sound of the familiar voice. "None other than my dear father himself."

Thomas was standing in the far doorway of the connecting chamber; Miranda hadn't thought to close her own door. He was still wearing his rain-dripping coat, walking stick in hand. His brow was lowered in dismay. Unaware of the scene playing out in his wife's room, Thomas strolled towards her, working at the buttons of his overcoat.

The placement of the dais between the window and chamber door meant that, with his attention fully on his wife, he had yet to notice his Navy liaison behind him. James had gone perfectly still, hands twitching at the hem of Miranda's scarf that protected his modesty at least somewhat.

"I was supposed to have dinner with Richard and his wife tonight, but there's only so much boneheadedness I can... abide..."

Thomas trailed off as he noticed the sketchbook in Miranda's hands. He went quiet all over as he realised the situation he had walked in on. Miranda wasn't sure whose mortification she felt more keenly - James in his compromising position, or Thomas, whose eyes were so terribly afraid to move anywhere at all, for fear of trespassing. They fixed upon hers in an effort to scramble towards stability.

"May I look?" Thomas asked finally. "James?"

Miranda could see James swallow heavily and bring his arms in front of his body, before he said with admirable firmness, "Yes."

And Thomas' gaze dropped down to Miranda's drawings.

She could see James inhale in surprise, arms falling back to his sides.

Thomas cautiously removed his dripping coat to avoid ruining the paper, and looked his fill. Miranda felt a rare pang of self-consciousness, knowing how obvious the sketches' awkwardness must be to her husband's knowledgable eyes.

His long fingers wouldn't stray from the very margins, as if to touch the lines themselves signified a transgression, and he held the papers as if they were sheets of delicate ashes that would crumble were he not careful. She could sense his nimble mind darting back and forth, amassing evidence, drawing conclusions, putting together proposals for improvement.

A rivers' worth in raindrops had drummed against the window panes by the time he looked up at his wife. Miranda felt something clench in her gut at the rawness in his face, but he blinked and concealed it well. A moment later she knew why.

"James," he said, still keeping his gaze pointedly ahead. "May I turn around, to offer some suggestions?"

Miranda allowed her eyes to stray back to James upon his dais and good God, she saw him do just the same as her husband, carefully brushing off what was so plain on his face.

"Yes," was all James said.

Thomas took a moment to brace himself before he turned.

She could _feel_ the instant their eyes met.

As Thomas made his careful way towards the dais, James looked suspended between challenging brazenness and the urge to escape through the nearest window. She would not have expected the brazenness - until she remembered the manner in which he had told her to show Thomas more of her sketches.

Miranda could not help noticing that Thomas lifted his chin more than strictly necessary, casting his eyes up as if to stress James' newly-superior height upon the dais.

"Try to favour one side when distributing your weight," Thomas instructed in a soft, carefully controlled voice. Miranda could tell that meeting his father must still be gnawing at him. "Allow the supporting leg to take it, let the resting hip lower -"

James shifted.

"Yes, and allow your arms to carve out negative space around your body - you want to present the artist with a silhouette -"

Thomas' hands hung in the air for a moment, gesturing as if to apply the changes themselves, but his fingers curled up, faltering, and he bent down to pick up the cane that he had dropped. He raised his brows at James, who lowered his chin in wordless assent, eyes steadfast and almost defiant.

The cane was still covered in rain drops that soon left delicate trails where Thomas tapped against an errant elbow, an unimaginatively placed foot, an uninspired shoulder to nudge them gently into more pleasing shapes. He held it towards the lower end, making sure that the side that usually touched the ground did not make contact with James' skin.

Miranda watched the delicate dance unfold; Thomas talking quietly and gesturing, James following where he was guided. Thomas' eyes rarely strayed to James' anymore, sinking entirely into his new task, gaze running along freckled limbs and solid planes of muscle. She could see the tight composure in his every movement, pleasure at a good puzzle simmering quietly beneath. As for James, she had expected him to retain his awkwardness longer, but he shaped himself into what was requested with only minimal pause. Then Miranda recalled that he was a Navy man, and had surely had his posture adjusted by many a superior officer.

She noticed how carefully Thomas ensured James retained his novel advantage in terms of height. Her husband knew perfectly well that utilising all levels available - standing, sitting, kneeling, repose - was a vital part of creating a diverse array of attractive poses; yet he fashioned all stances in such a way and lowered himself at such opportune moments to adjust the lieutenant's feet that it would keep James' eye level above his own.

And at some point, between Thomas instructing James to place his hand upon himself and press five firm dents into his own side, and guiding James' neck into a precisely-calculated tilt, Miranda saw something inside the lieutenant shift. She could see the way Thomas' low words, blended with the rain's incessant pattering, melded together to lull him into focused compliance. There was no more pause after Thomas' suggestions, born of James attempting to first process them before he followed; they achieved between them an immediacy of intent that almost wounded her to see.

She noticed how James followed the cane with the entirety of his attention, as if its contact were the only thing grounding him still in the present.

"Look at his arm, my sweet," Thomas remarked under his breath and she picked up her charcoal again. "I should never be able to elevate mine for so long a time without growing unbearably tired! James, can you maintain the angle of your elbow, but lower your shoulder a little? Don't strain downwards, just let it fall and give your ear room... Yes. Hold your hips just as they are, and turn your ribcage, just... here. Yes. Consider the placement of your audience. How beautifully you have just opened up this little space between arm and neck for Miranda."

"It's a lovely shape," Miranda agreed and broke off a small piece of her charcoal stick to use its broad side and fill said shape with darkness and emphasise its depth.

All together they fell into a pleasant trance, under the spell of Thomas' gentle opinions and the rain tapping like fingertips on the window and the silk-grain glide of Miranda's charcoal on the thick paper. The entire room was washed soft and hushful by the afternoon light.

„Weight forward... Turn out this foot, now adjust the knee... Yes, slightly inward... That's a nice silhouette, very Greek. No.“ A gentle tap against James' ankle. „Keep the weight leaning this way, towards the inner arch... Yes. _Yes._ “

Miranda could not have said how long they spent in this magical state, except that it was broken when Thomas paused notably longer mid-adjustment than had become his rhythm throughout. He went quiet and thoughtfully rubbed his thumb and first finger together by his side. James remained still in his pose, but his eyes flitted to her husband.

"Miranda," Thomas said pensively. "Don't you agree that James has the makings of a David?"

Miranda nodded firmly. "Quite certainly. James, would you do me the honour?"

James did not reply, but shifted as best he could into an approximation of the powerful simplicity of Michelangelo's most famous creation. Thomas helped ease the way. In the end, James was certainly not quite so superhuman in his proportions as David himself, but the living warmth of his skin and the sharp depths of his eyes made up for his mortality.

"Oh!" Thomas startled both James and Miranda by lightly clapping his hands. "How could I ask you to be David without giving you a sling!"

And he undid his cravat and handed it without preamble to James, whose fingers twitched about the white fabric as they picked it from Thomas' hand, careful not to touch, and draped it over his own shoulder.

"Would you say that we have made a good attempt of it?" Thomas turned to Miranda, who nodded approvingly as her piece of charcoal flitted about the page.

"Marvelously so, husband."

Thomas walked over to glance at the gesture taking shape on her paper, and he sighed appreciatively.

"This makes me rather wish to take up paper and pencil myself. It has been so long."

James' head tilted almost imperceptibly. "You draw, my lord?"

Thomas waved an absent-minded hand at the title. "I dabble. Miranda's draftsmanship far surpasses mine, I assure you." Miranda smiled as Thomas picked up her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.

"My pen might be more skilled," she conceded, "But it must be obvious by now that my dear husband has a particular gift for drawing pleasingness from the human form."

Thomas' eyes crinkled in wry amusement. "Oh my dove, I think the lieutenant would agree with me were I to turn that compliment onto you."

At this, James made a small noise that might have been surprise or discomfort or any number of things at all, and broke his pose. Miranda was glad Thomas was still turned towards her, for it prevented James from seeing her husband's face.

It was carefully composed again by the time Thomas had picked his coat from the floor and stepped back towards the dais.

"Be that as it may," he said briskly. "I'm sorry for having interrupted. James." Thomas shifted his cane to rest in the crook of his elbow with his coat. "During the unpleasant few hours I spent with my father, he said a number of things that I think might prove invaluable were we able to address them with a refined proposal for the entire Nassau undertaking." Thomas looked up at the lieutenant entreatingly. "Will you meet me in my study an hour hence?"

"Of course," James replied automatically.

Thomas held out his hand.

James shook it.

Miranda could have sworn she perceived a faint electric discharge as they touched for the first time since Thomas' arrival. The first time in _days_.

Then her husband swept out of the room, closing both doors of the connecting chamber as he went, and she was left with a stack of drawings, charcoal-smudged fingers and -

"Don't move," she implored and felt gratified by how perfectly James froze, his hand still outstretched where Thomas' had pulled away, an achingly guileless lift and reach in his body as it strove to process the sudden loss.

Miranda laid the pose out in a mere handful of energetic strokes, aware that any fiddling with details was only going to move them further from that moment of unselfconsciousness.

When she bade him relax his stance less than a minute had passed, and she barely managed to add a word of gratitude or praise before she found herself besieged by a sudden armful of James. It must have been the nerves preventing his body from allowing arousal to take its natural course while being posed upon the dais, but there was certainly no denying it now, with her pinned to the bed under such tender onslaught.

"What must he think of me," James moaned into her hair. "Making myself a frivolous plaything like this! Like an impoverished dock worker, pulled off the street to play the starving artist's muse for two coins."

"He will be thinking of your fine physique," Miranda assured him breathlessly and tugged the scarf off his hips. He could scarce slow down to undress her properly, simply rucked up the hem of her shift. "Of how thoroughly disciplined a Navy man you are. Of how discerning your tastes and how voracious your appetite for the finer arts, to approximate the pose of David with such little guidance. Perhaps he will be wondering what we might be doing right now, left all to ourselves for an hour, with the cravat he forgot."

She felt James still above her and added, "Go fetch it, dear."

\----

Things took their course as Miranda had expected them to, leading her loves finally into each other's arms, and yet it happened in a manner she had not foreseen. She watched across the ruins of their abandoned feast as they kissed. How dearly she wished everything could have been less complicated; and yet how plainly and painfully beautiful the flush of their first mutual taste!

She had to look away before long.

Miranda left them to themselves for a while, to let them sate what hunger had been building for so long.

Five days into this new state of affairs Thomas asked if he might borrow the purple chiffon robe. She could never deny him, and wistfully imagined them writhing against each other with the fine-spun thing enveloping them like a cocoon; yearning flesh seeking to merge, in sight but out of reach within the confines of their translucent shelter.

\----

"Since my appointment for today was cancelled," said Thomas one Saturday morning, "wouldn't it be nice if we spent some time together, the three of us?"

James tore his attention away from his sliced salmon to look at Thomas. "What did you have in mind?"

Thomas wiped a crumb from his chin. "This morning I was contemplating the collection of drawings Miranda has made of you. You may recall that I was feeling rather amorous, after."

James coloured but refused to look away, and Miranda could barely contain her smile.

"And as I was so happily ensconced between your thighs, I remembered my intentions to try my hand at drawing again. And I thought, with no secrecy and bashfulness to stand between us anymore, that maybe you would allow us the use of your body again? In a purely artistic sense, of course," Thomas added and patted James' fidgeting hand.

Miranda could see the way James' mind worked at this, how he twisted and turned between his delight and embarrassment at the idea of being so ordered around. She knew Thomas meant nothing by it, but he had not witnessed how wretched James' eyes had been with mortification as well as lust after Thomas had arranged him for her.

"Actually," Miranda intercepted. "Why don't you start with a demonstration, Thomas? You see," she addressed James. "Thomas may not have mentioned it, but he is quite capable of putting on a display himself. There may exist drawings to prove it."

James looked considerably encouraged by the thought.

They ended up draping the chaiselongue with a sheet to reduce its ornate detail to a clean backdrop. Miranda tried to coax James into picking up Thomas' pen to try a sketch or two of his own, but he declined. She couldn't tell if it was because he was shy to show his lack of skill or because he was so hungrily intent on devouring every shape that Thomas' naked body made against the white fabric. Thomas, feigning ignorance of James' state, blithely explained his intentions with each change of position.

Together, Thomas and James urged Miranda upon the make-shift stage after her husband, and she had to admit she was rather enamoured with James trying his hand at sketching after all. He refused to show her the results, but there was no ill humour in it.

"Now," Miranda said once she had gathered her shift about herself again. "With all our appetites whetted, I rather think it is time for the main course."

Thomas guffawed into James' shoulder, and James looked more determined than bashful when he stripped out of his clothes.

It took about ten minutes before Thomas could not help himself and abandoned his papers to provide manual aid in search of more inspiring poses.

With the uncertainty regarding their mutual affections gone, Thomas chose to simply arrange James with his bare hands this time, but he remained tactful and factual about it, avoiding lascivious straying and lingering of his touch. James asked questions and offered suggestions of his own now, having obviously engaged in some research since the last time.

Miranda's sketches of James were brisk and fond.

Before long she included Thomas in her pictures, capturing him unawares as he moved around James to draw forth new angles and tease careful asymmetries out of evenness.

She found particular joy in a drawing she made of James in languid repose on the chaiselongue, one leg extended so that the side of his largest toe rested against the ground, the other foot pulled up towards his body in a way that showed off his powerful thigh, muscles bulging almost obscenely in the foreshortening. The line of action led all the way from his stretched-out foot up through his side, guiding the eye towards his face. His head was only partially turned to her husband, but his gaze was so focused it made an invisible line of its own. Thomas himself was crouching beside the chaiselongue, the folds of his robe converging starburst-like where they were bunched between his thigh and stomach; the lines directed all attention up as well, past his hand on James' upon the arm rest, to his face. The negative space between them, filled with the magnetic pull of their eyes towards one another, made an inevitable focal point.

James, ever observant, noticed Thomas' addition to Miranda's drawings.

Thomas, ever bold, took off his robe in order to "explore new aesthetically satisfying constellations," as he put it with a wink.

Miranda, ever obliging, poured even more care than before into capturing the spaces that melted rapidly away between their limbs.

They stuck valiantly to chaste, well-considered compositions for half an hour.

Then James drew Thomas' hand to the burgeoning swell between his painstakingly arranged legs and Miranda held onto her pencil in a white-knuckled grip as she slipped her other hand into her own robe and watched.

\----

Thomas found her later by the fireplace, after James had left for his own lodgings. The lieutenant had only recently begun to stay the night, and he was still hesitant to do so.

"What are you doing?" Thomas asked as he came to place his hands on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

Miranda did not answer as she fed the next sheet of paper to the hungry flames.

Thomas rarely got properly enraged, and never with her. Still, she could not help feeling wretched and loathesome as he gathered the sketches of himself and James into his arms to protect them.

"Why?" was all he managed to bring out at first. "Is it - are you jealous? I've had lovers before, and so have you! You know that with men - that I - Miranda, I thought you would tell me if it bothered -"

" _Thomas_ ," she implored. Her eyes burnt and she wished it were only the proximity of the fire. "Please. You know I wish nothing but happiness upon you. I love you. And I love James. And that is precisely _why_."

Miranda could see her own agitation upsetting Thomas, and she allowed him to take her hand, letting the drawings spill to the floor.

"I would never ask you to give him up," Miranda explained miserably and drew his hand to her cheek, kissing his palm. "But these aren't like the other drawings I made. These are not just explained away by my dalliance with a handsome paramour. These are evidence. God knows what might happen should they be seen by the wrong eyes! You could both be hanged, and even if the court showed you clemency, your name would be ruined, your political ambitions dashed. And James would lose _everything_ , he has no name or money or status to protect him."

Thomas went perfectly still. Then he gathered up the papers and sat down on the hearth rug, pulling Miranda with him.

They sat quietly, leaning their heads together as they entwined their hands and burnt every last sketch.

\----

Miranda could see how it cut into Thomas, speaking of shameful secrecy as he explained.

"I am so sorry," he concluded and could not keep the distress from showing on his face.

James did not speak for the longest time. Eventually he sighed.

"Then we will just have to burn the papers everytime," he said.

Miranda could not help it this time; the tears sprang into her eyes and would not be denied.

Two pairs of warm hands came to brush them away, two mouths kissing the salt from her skin.

And if those mouths found each other just a little more often than they did hers during what followed, as she was pulled towards the bedroom and found herself so tenderly caught between her hungry loves, well.

Asymmetry had always made for a more interesting picture.

**Author's Note:**

> anachronistic though it may be stylistically, i'm envisioning miranda's figure sketches to have a similar energy to that of [michael](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/96/fe/84/96fe849fa027627431c93458c8cd215d.jpg) [mattesi's](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/aa/a8/69/aaa869c21d6bf2193bd628d33e0216c8.jpg) [figure drawings](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/89/f7/5d/89f75d28270b8b7dff4bb99f699ef473.jpg).
> 
> i tried to stick with the canon version that the london ot3 was not perfectly balanced, but i think that this complexity and messiness doesn't make it any less loving or beautiful. and i think all parties involved are aware and generally unbothered. and i like the idea that while james & thomas obviously view the world through the lens of narratives, miranda sees it in the form of images.
> 
> there'll be a nassau-centric coda, and mayyyybe also a little something focusing on that chiffon robe.
> 
> comments make me feel cherished and write faster ❤ come scream about black sails with me [on tumblr](http://squid-inspiration.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
